


Mosquito

by SDJ2



Category: Simon & Garfunkel, Simon and Garfunkel - Fandom
Genre: Canon Compliant, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Right?, because what's better than being comforted by Paul, listen i don't know anything about any of the boys' grandparents, plot device to make art sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:53:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24201625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SDJ2/pseuds/SDJ2
Summary: Art is sad. Paul comforts Art.Then, a mosquito not-so-quietly observes.
Relationships: Art Garfunkel/Paul Simon
Comments: 10
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

When Paul gets to the recording studio on Wednesday morning around 5am, he doesn't expect anyone to be there. It's still dark outside, so he lights a small desk lamp that is standing in the corner of the room. The shadows it throws makes the music equipment look almost eerie. He hums a new and uplifting tune they will rehearse later that day, despite thinking to himself how horribly wrong it is to be awake at such an ungodly hour. Stupidly enough it was a mosquito in his room that kept him up half of the night. Even after scouring all the corners of his room, armed with a pillow, he hadn't been able to find the damned insect and, itching all over, had given up on trying to go to sleep again. Instead he had made his way over to the studio, five blocks from his apartment. He figures that if he can't sleep, he can at least practise some guitar and try to figure out the bridge to that other song he's been struggling with for a while now. He is scheduled to meet Art and Roy in the studio at 8am anyway.

He tosses the jacket he threw on before going out his front door over a chair standing in the middle of the room. He then finds his guitar, sits down, and, after adjusting his capo on the right fret position, starts playing some random chords. He hums some more, and throws some meaningless words in here and there. After about twenty minutes of repeating the same chord progression over and over his calloused fingertips are starting to hurt, so he figures it's time for a cigarette. He turns around in the chair and fishes a pack of cigs and his lighter out of his jacket's pocket. The smoke he inhales burns on his tongue for a moment but it feels good so he closes his eyes and lets the taste sink down into his lungs.

"You do know we're not allowed to smoke in here," a voice comes from his right.

Paul's eyes fly open and he jumps up from the chair, all the hairs on the back of his neck standing upright. The fact that he can't immediately locate the source of the sound that broke the stillness of the early morning is bothering him, but at the same time he instinctively knows whose voice it was and he wills his nerves to calm down again.

Then he sees the blonde head of curls, half hidden between two large black Vox amplifiers in the corner against the wall. The man sitting there is tall, which is why he can't fit completely behind the amps. He has thrown both of his arms around his pulled-up legs and, with his chin resting on his knees, is looking questioningly at Paul.

Paul narrows his eyes. "What the hell?" he says. Then: "Why are you here?" He immediately regrets the harshness in his voice and makes some kind of unrecognisable hand gesture in an attempt to indicate to Art that he didn't mean it that way. "You know..." he trails off, "You almost scared me to death."

Art shrugs. "I could ask you the same thing," he remarks.

"I couldn't sleep."

"Me neither."

"Mosquito?" Paul says grinningly.

Art looks at him like he has lost his mind.

"Never mind," Paul quickly adds.

Only then does Art get up from his spot on the cold floor and steps closer to Paul. He waves his hand in the direction of Paul's guitar.

"Go on," he says. "That was a nice tune you were just playing. Is it a song you're working on?"

"Don't know yet," Paul answers truthfully. "It's been in my head for a while but it's hard to find good lyrics to it."

"Hmmm," Art says. He then finds another chair, puts it next to Paul's and slumps down on it.

Paul knows there's something the matter instantly. He noticed it in the way Art shuffled from his hiding place to the middle of the recording room a minute ago, and in the way he's now staring distantly at nothing in particular. Paul has been friends with Art for years now, and even though they do not always talk about everything, or analyse all their feelings in minute details, he thinks he has experienced enough with the man next to him to recognize the signs when something's wrong. As an added effect to that strain of thoughts, Art lets out a deep sigh. It seems kind of funny at first and Paul nearly has to suppress the desire to roll his eyes - in a friendly and teasing way, the way their banter usually goes. But when he glances to his left and sees the expression on Art's face, that feeling is quickly quenched and replaced with a slight pang of worry.

"Artie," he says while turning to look at the man next to him. "Why _are_ you here?"

This time his friend does not shoot the question back at him but looks somewhat evasively at the floor.

"I told you I couldn't sleep?"

"But why?" Paul presses on.

Art licks his lips and presses the palm of his hand against his own forehead.

"I needed some time and space to think."

"About what? And...here of all places?" Paul asks almost incredulously.

Art's right shoulder slightly goes up and down and Paul is momentarily left to wonder if that was supposed to mean anything, when he sees Art's lower lip tremble a bit. For a moment he thinks Art is actually going to cry, and he wonders why that thought scares him a little. He has seen Art cry before, but that was when they were kids, and as far as he can remember, both men haven't really cried anymore in recent years. At least not in each other's presence. Paul imagines that in some way it would be a little disconcerting to see Art cry. He can't explain the feeling.

But Art doesn't cry. Even though he positively looks on the verge thereof. In fact, he looks downright depressed.

Paul softens his tone and lowers his voice so that it only comes out as a whisper when he asks Art again what is wrong.

Art shakes his head - a nearly invisible motion, really - but it is a shake and Paul feels completely helpless at that moment. He has no idea what to do if Art doesn't want to talk to him. A strange mixture of relief and hurt bubbles up inside of him, and he has no clue how to interpret that particular sensation. Nervously he inhales another puff of smoke from his cigarette. Then he does the only thing he can think of at that moment. He gently puts his hand on Art's wrist and squeezes it in a reassuring manner, so that Art hopefully knows that it's okay if he doesn't want to talk. If Paul just has to sit there quietly next to Art with only the sounds of silence for company, then that is what he'll do.

The touch of his hand has two immediate effects. Art finally looks up to him and then he starts talking. In fact he starts rambling...just fast words strung together with sounds that resemble sobbing. But his eyes stay dry, so he's still not really crying. His breathing is weird though and combined with the tumbling of syllables from Art's mouth, Paul has to concentrate hard to catch the meaning of what Art is saying.

That meaning, in short, is this: Art had received a phone call during the night that his grandmother had been hospitalized. Paul understands Art's behaviour. Art's grandmother is the only grandmother he's got left, and it's his favourite one, too. Paul remembers she used to give both Art and him cookies when they were kids and they went to visit her. He also thinks he has figured out why Art wouldn't say anything to him about it at first. Paul has lost both of his grandmothers already and they were both still reasonably young when they passed away. Art's grandmother is definitely in trouble the way Art describes her situation, but it seems that she's stable…for now.

Paul gets up from his chair and sinks to his knees in front of Art. Art, who is looking thoroughly miserable and is back to refusing eye contact. Paul slings his hand carrying the cigarette around Art's shoulder and neck in a comforting manner.

"Hey," he says, "it's going to be okay, I'm sure."

Art sort of grunts a noncommittal sound.

"You know what?" Paul continues, “I’ll write a note and they’ll have to do without us for a day. I’ll go with you to the hospital to visit your grandmother, alright? Rehearsal will have to wait.”

Art finally turns his head in Paul's direction and the look on his face shows so much gratitude that Paul can hardly take it. When Art closes his eyes and inhales deeply, Paul curls his hand around Art's neck and brings their foreheads together. They sit like that for a minute...Art slumped forward on the chair and Paul on his knees in front of his friend, in a half embrace. "Hey," Paul says and he keeps repeating the word soothingly, like a mantra, "hey."

When Art pulls back, Paul smiles weakly and motions with his head to the door. Art nods but doesn't get up. Paul does, finds a piece of paper and scribbles a message on it for their producers to find when they'll arrive at the studio in a few hours. He extinguishes his cigarette, returns to where Art is sitting, asks "when are visiting hours exactly?" and holds out his hand to pull Art to his feet. When Art's standing upright he puts both his hands on Paul's shoulders and his gaze flicks from his hands to Paul's face and back. Paul assumes Art is going for a hug and leans into the touch.

His eyes widen in unexpected surprise when Art lowers his face to Paul's and fuses their mouths together.

It's a kiss with closed mouths, just their lips lightly touching, nothing more, and it probably only lasts for two seconds, but various images and thoughts already tumble and turn in Paul's mind. For a split second he seems to settle on the notion that, really, they're too old for experiments like this. They've seen each other naked before when they were in their early teens and then there was this one time when Paul went to see Art in college and he could have sworn he had been two minutes short of walking in on Art jerking off in his room, judging from Art's fumbling and his flushed face, but he doesn't believe he has ever given these images and feelings a second thought. Until now. He knows Art is hurting, and that's why they really shouldn't be doing this because if nothing else it's going to be extremely awkward for the both of them afterwards, but then he feels the tip of Art's tongue boldly trying to gain entrance to his mouth. He hesitates an instant longer but he knows his resolve is crumbling right then and there when it feels as if someone just lit a match deep inside him, right below his stomach. His eyes slip shut and he gives Art the permission he's seeking.

One more thought of _ohgodohgodohgodohgodo_ _h_ and then they're really, seriously _kissing_ , open mouths and wet tongues. They're pressed closely together, Art's arms around Paul's body and Paul's hands tangled in Art's hair, and it's so strange and familiar at the same time that Paul feels like he's floating from the surrealism of it all.

Art is the first to pull back. When Paul slowly opens his eyes, Art just whispers "thank you" to him. Paul just blinks up at him in stunned silence.

When they gather their jackets, still not one word is said. Paul can’t stop thinking about how a man’s lips are not supposed to be as soft as Art’s were and how his own lips are still tingling from their contact with Art’s.

If Paul forgets to lock the door on the way out, he can hardly be blamed.


	2. Epilogue

As he walks through the hospital exit's revolving door, conscious of Art behind him, Paul thinks that the hospital visit was probably a good excuse for both him and Art to not have to acknowledge immediately what happened earlier in the recording studio. They had each gone home first to change, and had agreed to meet up again later, when visiting hours started. The moment when they had parted ways to go home had been quite awkward. Art had glanced at him but had seemed at a loss for words, while Paul couldn't seem to stop fumbling with his house keys and had kept his hand tightly wrapped around the keychain in the pocket of his jacket. He had also lit two more cigarettes, glad with the diversion to hold something in his other hand, lest he should start biting his nails.

This feeling had been exactly what he had been afraid of, but Art's grandmother, who seemed to be out of the woods by the time they had both come through her hospital room's door later, had been so grateful for their company, and especially Paul's presence as well, that she had managed to temporarily take his mind off of things. She had taken a hand from each of them, being sat at opposite sides of the bed, in hers and had expressed how happy she was to see both of "her boys". This had caused Paul and Art to exchange a few furtive glances with each other. Paul had been relieved to see that some of the colour had returned to Art's cheeks and his dejected mood had somewhat lifted, judging by Art's slighty raised eyebrows and the small lift of the corners of his mouth. Art's grandmother would be fine. 

Paul had broken eye contact quickly, however, because looking at Art's lips had prompted his thoughts to return to the events from earlier that morning, when his and Art's mouths had become familiar in a way he hadn't thought would ever happen. Not only because it had been _Art_ kissing him, but also because he wasn't sure if he had ever consciously contemplated kissing another man, let alone his friend. The thing was, gauging from the level of heat pooling in his lower belly while Art's tongue had met his, he also had to admit that he would be more than disappointed should Art indicate that this had been a one-time thing, something that had happened only as a fluke, as a way to alleviate the hollow feeling from fear of losing a family member. Then again, he had also never picked up on signs that Art had been interested in him, or in men in general, which had only added to his confusion.

This is why, now that they're walking out onto the driveway in front of the hospital, and he's about to wave a cab down, he figures they should probably try to talk about this, because he'll be damned if he'll let this weird thing grow and come between them. Not only has Artie been his friend since elementary school, Paul also has a professional relationship to uphold with him, if they want to keep their musical careers progressing for a while longer. His and Art's friendship hasn't always been the easiest, but Paul reckons that an added element of unresolved sexual tension between them would complicate matters to such an extent that the third album they're working on now might not even see the light of day. 

Just as he hears Art footsteps catching up with his and he looks up saying "Want to get something to eat?" Art starts speaking and asks "Do you think we should...uhm...?"

Paul feels comforted by the fact that Art seems to want to clear up this apprehension between them as much as Paul thinks they should. 

"Yeah," he replies. "Your place or mine?"

"Yours is closer," Art says.

His place it is. 

+++

Paul's head is caught between Art's chin and Art's chest as he slowly opens his eyes, and he has to untangle their legs when he pushes himself up on his arms and off the bed to tiptoe to the bathroom. He tries to be as silent as possible. After he flushes the toilet and washes his hands, he lingers in the doorway to his bedroom for a while, his eyes sweeping over Art's lanky form on the bed. It's interesting, he thinks, that he's never been as aware of the length of Art's limbs and the exact shade of Art's curls as he is now. 

"What are you doing over there?" Art's voice breaks the silence, indicating that he's awake, so Paul lets out a breath that he's apparently been holding. "Come back here."

Paul doesn't hesitate to oblige and crosses the distance to the bed in three long strides. He curls his body back around Art's and nuzzles Art's cheek with his nose. 

Art hums, and Paul feels the vibrations of Art's vocal chords on his face. His left-hand fingers sneak up to Art's adam's apple, where they hover slightly above the bump on Art's throat and come down with what he thinks is a feather-light and reverent touch. Art reacts by turning his head sideways.

"Your fingers are cold," he says. He doesn't elaborate. "Go back to sleep," Paul tells Art, whose eyes have already fallen back closed. Art hums again in agreement and complies with the suggestion.

Paul reckons he should also try to sleep a bit, as both he and Artie are expected back at the studio tomorrow morning. After they had both returned to his apartment, there had been a message from Roy on his answering machine complaining that they'd better have a good excuse for not showing up today and for leaving the goddamn door open to boot. Paul makes a mental note to compare stories with Art tomorrow morning so they're both telling consistent white lies. 

He smiles to himself, imagining Roy's face when finding out the two members of this musical duo are sleeping with each other. 

They haven't reached that stage yet though, having agreed to take things slow to see where this is going. 

An extremely uncomfortable thirty minutes had transpired earlier that evening, with both of them sitting on opposite ends of the couch, Art quietly sipping the tea that Paul had steeped. Eventually, Paul had been so fed up with the strange atmosphere between them that his slightly aggravated "so, is this how it's gonna be from now on, or what?" had finally compelled Art into reluctantly admitting that he had, in fact, harboured some feelings towards Paul lately, but that if he, Paul, wasn't able to reciprocate, he, Art, would totally understand and they could just forget about the whole thing. Art had sworn he wouldn't let it impact their friendship or their musical work. The look in Art's eyes had quietly implored to be let down gently. 

To be honest, as surprising as this sudden confession was, seeing as he had been blind to any cues from Art, Paul had been secretly pleased to be on the receiving end of such affections by his friend. True, they had appeared rather out of the blue and had left him questioning his own thoughts and feelings towards same-sex relationships, especially one involving himself. But, as he had established earlier, he also wasn't keen on turning down another chance to kiss Art Garfunkel. He was not yet sure about going further than that, until he had further processed the novelty of the situation. 

He had tried to relay some of these musings to Art, in an attempt to allay his friend's concerns about the unrequitedness of his crush. Art had beamed up at him, which had left Paul quite proud of himself for being able to make Art smile. Because in fact, damn, a smiling Art Garfunkel was a sight to behold. Paul had wondered momentarily why it hadn't been his life's mission up until now to make the crow's feet around Art's eyes appear when his face lit up. This had made him realize that he was probably already a lot further gone than he had previously imagined. 

Art, being reassured by Paul's words, had not so subtly shifted closer to him on the couch and had followed up his toothy smile by asking "so does this mean I can kiss you again?"

Paul, laughing, had agreed. "Yes, please do," he had said, and Art's hand had grabbed his neck faster than Joe DiMaggio hitting a home run. 

Their make-out session on the sofa had, barring a few breaks to steal food from his fridge, been continued on the bed, where Paul is now all but being the big spoon, hugging Art closely and basking in the rising and falling of Artie's chest beneath his hand.

Just when he feels his mind drift into unconsciousness and sleep, the sound of a mosquito buzzing near his ear makes him violently shake himself loose from Art. He scolds loudly "well, fuck me!" which causes Art to wake up with a jolt, eyes open and huge in the near darkness of Paul's bedroom.

"What's going on, for god's sake?" Art questions, as Paul grabs his pillow and lights the bedstand lamp at his side of the bed. 

"That godforsaken mosquito. It kept me up last night and I couldn't find it, so that's why I was in the studio so early. Fucking beast. I'm full of bites. It dies today, I tell you." 

Art's facial expression softens. "Maybe it isn't the one from last night? Maybe that one already died after stinging you," he offers, quite unhelpfully. 

Paul stops scouring the walls and ceiling for a black shadow, still holding his pillow, ready to strike, and looks back to Art. "This isn't a fucking bee! Mosquitoes can sting repeatedly," he counters indignantly. "Do they even sting? Or do they bite?"

Art, who has risen from his previous vertical position on the bed and approaches him from behind, touches his arm. "But if it is the same mosquito from last night, remember that it brought you to the studio earlier? So, indirectly it brought us together." His eyes glint. "Leave it be." 

Paul considers this for a moment. "Are you seriously taking the side of this mosquito?" Exasperated, he lowers the pillow he's holding. "I would have gone to the hospital with you in any case," he continues. 

"I know," says Art, and pulls him into a one-armed hug. 

Paul melts into the embrace, and - unenthousiastically nonetheless - agrees to let the abomination live. Art kisses his forehead and steers him back toward the bed. 

+++

Paul scowls when the next morning he wakes up with two new mosquito bites. One on his instep and the other one on his inner thigh. They itch terribly. He makes sure to let Art, who, naturally, wakes up without a care in the world nor any prickling bump filled with mosquito saliva, know that this is all his fault. He will never let Art live this down. 

Art, however, shrugs and lowers his head to take a good look at the dark pink swellings on Paul's foot and leg. 

"I could kiss it better," Art suggests, and proceeds by pressing his lips to the bite on Paul's foot and sticking his tongue out to lick the one on his thigh.

"Hmpf," Paul grumbles, as he's trying to keep himself from laughing because it tickles. "Thanks, but I'd rather not be sucked dry by some stupid insect in the first place," he continues. 

Art's head comes up from where it was hovering above the bite. There is a very mischievous look into his eyes, and Paul can't quite place it immediately, until Art graciously offers: "I think _I_ can do some sucking, if that's what you want."

Any blood left in Paul's body that hasn't been forcefully taken by the monstrous insect, rushes to a single spot in his groin, while his brain tries to process that statement. _Oh_. His cheeks flush. 

"Relax," shushes Art. "I didn't mean right this second." But Paul can't do anything but helplessly watch Art's gaze land on his bulge, which unequivocally shows the tell-tale signs of arousal. _Honestly_ , what has he done to deserve such a fate, he thinks.

Art's grin only gets wider. "What happened to taking things slow?" he questions, teasing. 

Paul casts his eyes up to the ceiling, where, needless to say, he spots the mosquito in question overhearing their conversation. 

He gives up. "Oh, go on then," he motions to Art. "But afterwards I am killing that mosquito." 

"Sure thing," counters Art, who doesn't waste any time inching one of his hands closer to the waistband of Paul's boxers. "That is if you've got enough strength left in your legs to stand," he adds while wiggling his eyebrows. 

+++

The mosquito lives two more days. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Naturally the epilogue turned out longer than the first chapter. Still, I hoped you liked it.
> 
> To be a fly - errrr, a mosquito, on the wall, huh? :)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written over a decade ago. A small group of fans were getting together in an LJ community dedicated to Simon & Garfunkel as lovers, and someone would say something or post a picture and that was basically my prompt to get fic ideas. 
> 
> This fic is actually based on a black & white picture of Paul with his arm around Art's neck.  
> The kissing scene was based on another fan-made drawing, but sadly the account on LJ that originally posted said picture was deleted. The drawing unfortunately didn't make it, either.
> 
> I had an idea for a small sequel/epilogue back in the day, but I think I still have some inkling about what the sequel was supposed to be. Maybe I'll even get to writing it soon. Oh look, 'soon' has turned into the next day. 2nd and final chapter is up.
> 
> If you want to go ahead and give this fic [reblog over on tumblr](https://froyo-ravioli.tumblr.com/post/618363987299581952/in-late-2008-i-went-to-an-art-garfunkel-concert-in), be my guest (pretty please?)


End file.
